London 2012
by Maudlin Matryoshka
Summary: America and Canada are reminded of the meaning of the Olympic games, and Britain welcomes the world to London after a hard four years. A tribute to the London 2012 games. Human names used, no ships.


**Suggested listening:**

**Part 1-Good Morning To The Night by Elton vs Pnau**

**Part 2-Underworld - Caliban's Dream (London 2012 Olympics Opening Ceremony)**

* * *

An hour before the start of the opening ceremony of the London 2012 Olmpic Games, the First Family of the United States is running late. In a huddle of secret service personnel, the First Lady tries to remain as composed as possible for the omnipresent cameras while urging her daughters along and hurrying to their seats. The Secret Service is not pleased-all the preliminary sweeps had checked out clean, of course, or the First Family would still be safely back at the hotel. But in the giant throng of tourists, journalists, TV crews, Olympic staff, and various other security types, a threat could come from any direction, at any time. The Secret Service is on a hair trigger: especially one. A tall, young,

sandy-haired man scans the crowd even more anxiously than his fellows, searching the faces around them and only stopping to take a quick, violent swig of water from an oversized bottle at his side.

As they move through the crowd, a young man sitting in the stands with his legs propped up on the seat ahead of him jumps to his feet. Weaving through the crowd, he manages to get close to the first family. He reaches out to tap the shoulder of the sandy-haired Serviceman, but finds a gun in his face before he gets near.

"Whoa, whoa...Alfred...uh..." the man stutters nervously.

The sandy-haired Serviceman whips around to face the newcomer, and breaks out in an ecstatic grin.

"Easy, everyone, this is who I was expecting." Alfred says jovially, throwing an arm across the man's shoulders. "My 'lil bro, Mattie."

"Pleased to meet you," Mattie finishes, then nods respectfully towards the First Lady. "Ma'am."

The First Lady looks on with an affectionate smile. "Wonderful to see you again, Matthew."

"May I go now, Ma'am?" Alfred says.

She smiles benevolently. "Of course. Have a nice evening, boys."

Alfred waves to the first daughters, then guides/pulls Mattie away and into the crowd, only dropping his enthusiastic look when they are a safe distance away.

"I thought you'd never show," he shouts in Matthew's ear to be heard over the roar of the stadium fans.

Mattie doesn't bother to respond, instead guiding Alfred's bulk through the fray and towards the press box. As they get closer, a smaller box directly beneath the main TV cameras becomes visible. Mattie steers Alfred towards this box, and they tumble over one another to get inside.

"Ugh," Alfred pants. "Water." He reaches for his bottle, but a quick search and scuffle reveals that it was lost in the crowd.

"Seriously?" he expostulates, smacking the wall in frustration.

"Hold up," Mattie says quickly, going to a small panel in the wall. He pushes on it, and it comes away to reveal a secret stash of cold drinks.

Alfred gapes in wonder, and dives for a cold coke. After finishing most of the can in one drought, he comes up for air and a grateful grin at Mattie.

"You're the best, you know that?"

Mattie returns the grin. "I try."

Alfred finishes the coke can, and then another. Having quenched his thirst for the moment, he looks up to see Mattie curled up on a comfy leather couch at the front of the small room, reading a handwritten note. He plops down next to Mattie and peeks over his shoulder. The strong, stylized handwriting is immediately recognizable.

"So what does Arthur have to say?"

Mattie reads the note aloud.

_"Boys-_

_Hope the accommodations are comfortable. You've got the best seats in the house. I'm sorry I won't be there to welcome you in person, but we'll have to meet up later after things are underway. Enjoy the show._

_All my love, Arthur."_

"Jeez, he's so formal when he writes," Alfred says, whining. He stretches out on the couch, and plops his legs in Mattie's lap.

"You think that's formal?"

"Whatever," he responds, starting on his third coke can. Mattie gives him an affectionate, but nervous smile.

"Slow down there, Al. The ceremony hasn't even started."

"Soooooo thirsty," Alfred drawls, leaning back and closing his eyes.

Looking out the glass wall in front of them, Matthew realizes that they do indeed have the best seats in the house, allowing them to see the entire floor comfortably. Down below, the stadium floor has been transformed into a rolling, grassy landscape, filled with rocks, trees, ponds, farmers, and livestock, decorating the sprawling carpet of green. The actors below play traditional games and traverse the land, doing their best to demonstrate the agricultural society from which modern Britain grew.

Restless, Alfred gets up again to strip off the heavy jacket and tie that completed his Secret Service uniform. They are carelessly tossed in a corner as he goes for another can, this time, Pepsi. It disappears in another giant swallow.

"Ow," he complains as his stomach cramps trying to process all the liquid. "Darn it." He staggers back to the couch and throws himself down, this time with his head in Mattie's lap.

"Hiya," he says through a grimace.

"Hi," Mattie responds. He starts to smooth Alfred's damp bangs away from his forehead, but pulls his hand away in surprise.

"Al, you're burning up! Do you have a fever or something?"

"Most of me is in a drought right now, you know," he responds irritably. "And the heat waves have been intense."

Violet eyes narrow and squint through glasses perched on the tip on his nose down into bright blue.

"And what else?"

Alfred stares at the ceiling, avoiding his gaze. Fidgets. "Whaddya mean?"

"Something in wrong in the good old U.S. of A."

"Whatever you say, Canada," he responds sarcastically. Fidgets again, cracks open another Pepsi. Then, "Hey, where's, um, the polar bear?"

"Stop trying to change the subject. He wanted the Queen's autograph."

Alfred stares incredulously at Mattie for a few seconds, but he appears to be completely serious.

"He wants it _now_? And, wait, how can-"

"You're evading the question," Mattie interjects flatly.

Alfred gets up again, gives him a look, and starts pacing around the room.

Mattie tries again. "You're twitchy tonight."

"Am I?" Another swig of Pepsi.

"And thirstier than usual."

"What do you expect? I'm in a drought, remember?"

"True, true," Mattie murmured. Up above them, a there is a sudden scuffle of feet, and someone yells directions. In the stadium, the lights flash, urging spectators back to their seats. The ceremony will begin in five minutes. On the stadium floor, the performers slowly come to life, putting more vigor and theatrics behind their movements. New performers march in from the sidelines and line the barriers.

"And you aren't listening to me," Alfred grumbles, bringing his soda can down with a smack on a table, causing the drink to splash out. With a scowl at his clumsiness, goes to the cupboard for another.

Mattie refocuses, turning abruptly to stare at him. "But I am. Something else is going on, besides the drought. What?"

"I can't focus," Alfred admits testily.

"Aren't you interested? I mean, aren't your people watching this?"

"Oh, sure. 40 million TV viewers. Plenty of tourists. Record numbers. I'm glued," he responds sarcastically.

"Then what?"

"Well, now's not really my best time, y'know? Actually, it's not really the best time for anyone, is it?"

"What do you mean?"

Alfred turns to face him, hands on his hips. "For one thing, I'm in the middle of an election year."

Mattie frowns. "Believe me, I know."

"Yeah, well, you don't have to deal with the constant back and forth. The campaigns are getting nastier every year."

"And mine aren't?"

Alfred rolls his eyes. "It's a major headache." The truth was, of course, that he loved every second, that he was fiercely proud of his democratic system. But with his people so sharply divided, it felt as if the two sides of his heart were beating against each other. The viciousness of the political discourse didn't help either, filling his thoughts with ugly pictures and a shifty, spiteful attitude.

"And, my god, you heard about Aurora, right?"

"Yes. Al, I'm so sorry."

Alfred rubs a sore spot on his back, and it throbs, making him wince. "Those poor families...I wanted to go there, but you know how it is..."

"The bosses always need us for something."

The red, raw place that marks the sorrow and anger of Aurora, Colorado on his back burns painfully.

"A six year old girl died, Mattie. And a baby was miscarried. I felt all of them die."

Mattie waits, feeling a rant starting to build.

"But that's tiny compared to Syria, isn't it? Every day, the numbers get closer to 30,000 casualties, and it's been a _year_, and it's _not over_. Still, he shows up here, insane and bleeding. And what about Sudan, torn apart as he is? Or the breakdown in diplomacy between Israel and Iran? Or the floods in North Korea, or well, ANYTHING. I have to pay attention to EVERYTHING...!"

Alfred, red faced and panting, looks to Mattie for confirmation, but receives none. Instead, Mattie calmly extends a hand to him, guiding him back to the couch. In the stadium, the crowd lights go down for the start of the show. The stands shake as the people begin to chant

10...

9...

8...

Alfred sits stiffly, still upset. Mattie curls up next to him, pressing his cooler body against Alfred's too-hot frame, and slips a hand behind his brother's head to massage his neck.

"We've had bad times before, Al. Much worse than now."

"But-"

Mattie silences him with a look.

"We've had the Olympics at worse times. I mean, Berlin 1936 wasn't exactly a piece of cake."

7...

6...

"The Olympics aren't a time to forget what is happening in the world, Al. That's impossible.

5...

4...

What they are is a celebration that we've managed to live in relative harmony for four more years, enough that we can focus on the positive aspects of humanity and celebrate them with friendly competition.

3...

2...

The Olympics remind us of our better selves. Arthur has done a great job as host, and this is his big moment. Let's just enjoy it for now."

1...

A cheer rings out over the stadium as the ceremony begins, and a giant bell is sounded. Alfred takes a deep breath, and tries to relax into Mattie's comfort. He plants a kiss on his little brother's head.

"You remind me of _my_ better self. Thank you."

Let the Games begin.

* * *

In a giant, rollicking, throbbing mass of performers, drummers, children, and technicians, Arthur stands facing the Tor in costume, ready to welcome the lighting of the Olympic torch, quivering from head to toe. Every part of him is awake and tingling in a way that only happens to a nation when its people are united towards a common goal. It was a phenomenon known to the personified nations as the "Olympic Rush," and Arthur was feeling it directly at his core. The pounding of the drums in the stadium matches the throbbing in his body, the magic of the ceremony and the enthusiasm of the crowd

washes across the stadium and across the city in electric waves, and he savors the moment of feeling completely whole, well, and alive, content to perform, content to celebrate, content to welcome, and ecstatic to be. The LED lights dancing across the stadium are outshone by the Olympic fire as the golden torches are touched to the cauldron. As the burning copper bowls from each nation rise to make the iconic bowl, bells all over the nation ring out in jubilation. Tonight, his isles are indeed full of noises, and he adds his own voice to the chorus with a triumphant shout. After four years of toil, confusion, anxiety, budget concerns, weariness, and labour, he has delivered, thrown open the doors to his heart and ushered in the world.

We did it right.

_Be not afeard. The isle is full of noises,_

_Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not._

_Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments_

_Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices_

_That, if I then had waked after long sleep_

_Will make me sleep again; and then in dreaming_

_The clouds methought would open and show riches_

_Ready to drop upon me, that when I waked_

_I cried to dream again._

* * *

**A/N: No political statements intended. The last quotation is from Shakespeare's _The Tempest, _and was featured as a part of the opening ceremony. R&R please.**


End file.
